The Handoff
by MadRabbit
Summary: All the abuse, the frustration, the extra practice…it's like Panther was just waiting for this moment. Homer and Panther play a real game together for the first time...in Japan, but whatever. Oneshot, GEN, rated T for a little swearing.


**My first Eyeshield 21 fic (that I've posted on here, anyway), and it's about those guys from America. Some notes before you start reading...**

**-I'm not Texan. I'm about as un-Texan as it comes, so I tried not to embarrass myself too much by trying to throw around Southern slang. So just remember to read all their dialogue with a Southern drawl, and don't hate!  
**

**-About young Homer's lisp. A friend of mine and I came up with that together, but that's another story. Suffice to say Panther's nickname works in Japanese (_Pa_-torikku Supe-_nsaa_ = _Pansaa_), but justifying it in English requires its own narrative.  
**

**-I know so little about the organization of high school football in America that it's a bit sad. My only saving grace is that I tried to do my research thoroughly and I think very few Eyeshield 21 readers actually play football. Hopefully.  
**

**-Writing Apollo made me distinctly uncomfortable. I think he had to be pretty passive-aggressive with his abuse, otherwise he would have been fired. Even so, we saw it get pretty bad and Panther's still a saint for putting up with it.  
**

**-This isn't a pairing fic. I think that should be pretty obvious, but I'm just making sure.  
**

* * *

They're always talking in the middle of class.

"You watch football too?" Panther, who will probably always be called Panther now thanks to Homer's lisp, looks practically ecstatic at the news. "What's your favorite team? D'you play? D'you wanna—"

"My dad th…th…_says_ other thport…sss are for th-_sissies_," says Homer, looking a little dejected—Panther seems to catch on to this and gives his friend a closer look. "We watch the games Sundays, but he never told me the rules…"

Panther's face acquires a sort of "oh, is that all?" kind of expression. "I'll 'splain to you! It's fun, promise. Gramma and me listen to it on the radio, 'cuz we don't have a TV, but I like just imagining it, too... I went to a game once, though!"

Homer brightens, glad to have something to contribute. "Oh, we got a TV! My dad won't mind if you come over, and most times he falls asleep halfway through the game and he _never _wakes up, so we can turn it up as loud as we like!"

They exchange a high-five and then cringe as the Mr. MacCallum shouts, "Spencer! Fitzgerald! Eyes forward!"

That Sunday, all arrangements have been made between Homer's pa and Panther's gramma. Panther doesn't feel too out of place in Homer's apartment—it's actually not too different from Gramma's, except for the TV.

"You want popcorn?" says Homer, jumping up as Panther peeks through the door. He's been lying on the floor, reading an old issue of Batman. Panther nods politely, barely remembering to say thank you (he's not a rude kid, just easily distracted).

"Pa's already asleep," Homer tells him from the little yellow-tiled kitchen. "He's been workin' night shift all week, so he just turned on the sports channel and lay down on the couch…"

The announcers are running replays of the teams involved, which are just interesting enough to keep the boys in front of the screen until the game starts. Both of them are on their stomachs, feet waving lazily in the air as they take turns reaching for the egregiously yellow popcorn.

"…which is why the quarterback dumps the ball soon as he can if they sack 'im," Panther concludes cheerfully, unperturbed by Homer's slightly stunned expression. Homer'll start getting it after the game actually starts, but having everything about football explained to you all at once can be tough. Panther, of course, has been living and breathing football so long that he doesn't really understand how someone _couldn't _get it.

They almost miss the kickoff for all Homer's questions, but Panther nudges his friend sharply just as the kicker takes his first steps towards the ball. They both stare, mesmerized, at the screen, buttery fingers buried in the popcorn bowl.

The score in the last two minutes is 42-38, with the team they're rooting for lagging by four points. By this time both boys are totally engrossed, even though Homer's still having a little trouble with the rules. And when the final, decisive touchdown is scored (with one second to go), they're jumping up and down and yelling.

"Throw the ball or thomethin'!" screams Homer, fists pumping with excitement. And then, when the quarterback handily follows his orders, he shouts, "_Catch it!_" at the prospective receiver.

"He's gonna!"

"He'th got it!"

And then, in unison: "_NO!_"

"Fumble—no! No, he got it! Lateral?"

"Where'd it go?"

"They're runnin'!"

"GO! Go, go! _Yes_!"

"YEAH!"

"Touchdown!"

At this point, Homer's dad rolls over on the couch and mumbles something in his sleep. The two boys settle down a little, but they don't stop grinning and pumping their fists and punching each other on the shoulder until sometime after the next program starts.

"We gotta play together when we're in high school, awright?" says Homer later. They're in his parents' bedroom, digging through the shoes and clothes heaped on the floor of his closet to find his dad's old football.

"Well, _yeah_!" Panther peers into the dusty darkness. "_If I was this messy, Gramma would kill me… _I wanna play running back."

"You pretty fast, then? Aw, come on, it's gotta be in here somewhere…"

"Yeah, pretty fast," says Panther, shrugging. "I never played in a real game, though."

"I'm gonna be a quarterback," says Homer decisively, stretching one hand into the murkiest corner of the closet. "You th…thed…_said_ they need strong armth—_ss_—for the long passes. I'm gonna work out a lot before we get to high school, and then we can play for the same team and I'll pass and I can give you the ball when you run."

"Handoff," says Panther automatically.

"Yeah, what you said. Found it!" Homer sits back on his rear, a grimy and somewhat sticky football in one small hand. "Let's go try it out!"

As it turns out, as much as Panther knows about football in general, he isn't actually sure about the details of handing off the ball. So after a couple messy ten-year-old fumbles, they both troupe back into the living room to see if there are any helpful play recaps on.

"See," says Homer, pointing, "he sticks one foot out and then he turns, see?"

"Yeah, but he did it different last time! It's a different play, so he did it different."

"'Kay, well, we'll just try it normal-like, and then we can act like we've got different plays and practice those."

After a while, they find men around town—local fathers and grandfathers—who are more than willing to teach them the physical basics. Mr. Baxter used to play quarterback for some high school up in Iowa (or Ohio, one of the two), and he lets them use his YMCA card to get into the local weight room.

"Hey, Homer," says Panther one day, "you reckon I could jump from that building to that one over there?"

They're by the window; Panther is stretching while Homer does trembling, laborious push-ups. Homer doesn't even bother to look up to answer.

"Yeah, but…_three_…your gramma…_four_…would kill you…_ffffffive…_ugh!"

"Hey, if I don't get hurt, she wouldn't even know…"

Homer doesn't reply to this—he's just barely made seven push-ups. He's crimson in the face, his lips are pressed tightly together, and he's breathing hard through his nose. A couple seconds later, he collapses, shoulders heaving. Panther looks down at him, bemused.

"Was that…?"

"Seven," Homer pants, pressing his face against the linoleum of the workout room floor. "Just…seven. Gimme…a sec here…"

"Y'all need to step it up," Panther informs his friend, and settles down on a mat to stretch his long, bony legs. His feet are unnaturally large for his age, but Gramma has always said he'll grow into them (and his ears) when he gets older. He can reach well past his toes, as well as easily rest his chest on the floor when his legs are apart. "We only got a couple years 'til tenth grade, y'know."

Homer grins, wiping sweat from his nose with one hand. "Yeah, awright. I think I can hit ten today!" And he heaves himself back up with a great, torturous effort, burning eyes fixed on the floor with determination not often seen on the face of a ten-year-old. "_Eight…_"

"…_Nine… Ninety…"_

"Y'only had to do _fifty_ push-ups for the T-shirt, kid!" says the blond soldier, laughing. "We didn't come here to watch you show off."

"_Ninety-five…_I know that," Homer grunts good-naturedly. "I was just—_ninety-six_—wonderin', though—_ninety-seven_—does this get me—_ninety-eight_—two shirts?"

"If you can still talk when you're two push-ups from a hundred, sure," says the soldier, and reaches into his box. "Remember us when you're thinkin' of careers, alright?"

"_A hundred_! You got it, sir." Homer hops to his feet, a bit short of breath but still smiling. "You like being back in Texas?"

"Sure. Here, kid…who's the other shirt for—your girlfriend? Girls only gotta do twenty-five, y'know."

Homer shakes his head, his grin taking on a rueful quirk. "Naw, no girlfriend yet—but it's just freshman year, I got time. This is for a friend of mine, just 'cuz I felt like it…he's already out on the football field, I think."

"Football?" This guy, like most other men in this town, reacts with immediate interest to the word. "Too early for a game, isn't it?"

"Uh…yeah ," says Homer. His eyes go a little unfocused, like they're staring at a point on the horizon over the soldier's shoulder. "Yeah, he's probably…stretching. Practice. Gotta go, sir! Thanks for the T-shirt!"

_If Panther notices there aren't any black guys on the established team, he doesn't say anything. Homer doesn't really think much of it, except, _That's kinda weird.

_Then he moves on to sizing up everyone else; there's a couple of dudes here who are easily recognizable as linemen, well-muscled and weightier than the rest. Prospective quarterbacks are tougher to spot, and the other positions are even more ambiguous, but there are a few who look like they might play receiver or running back. Homer tries not to snicker at the thought of how they'll feel watching Panther run for the first time._

_One of the skinnier guys wanders over to him, a friendly smile on his face. Homer's first instinct is to make fun of the guy's glasses, but he catches himself; he and Panther have been kidding around with each other for a long time, but not everyone responds well to cheerful mockery._

_Instead he says, "Hey."_

"_Hey," says the guy, his smile widening. "Y'all are the new kids, then? Lemme guess…" He takes a step back, scrutinizing Homer from head to foot with one finger on his glasses. "…No, you're a mystery. You got a specific position you're aimin' for? You got enough muscle to block, that's for sure."_

"_Quarterback," says Homer quickly. "If the coach'll let me. I throw a _mean _long pass."_

"_I believe it! What's your name again?"_

"_Homer. Homer Fitzgerald. This is—hey, Panther! This here is Panther, good friend of mine."_

"_Running back," says the guy immediately, looking Panther up and down. "Bet you could catch a pass too, though. Just my opinion. I'm Jeremy Watt. I didn't see you two at off-season training…"_

_Panther gives Jeremy one of his blinding smiles. "Pleased to meet you! NASA was a kinda last-minute choice, y'know? But we're both good to go, I swear!"_

Gramma raised him right, _thinks Homer, who has never said "pleased to meet you" to someone his own age, ever. _

"_Well, if you say so… You aren't actually named _Panther_, are you?" asks Jeremy, frowning at a clipboard he appears to have produced from thin air. "That name's not on here anywhere…"_

"_Oh, well, y'see-" say Panther and Homer in unison, and then share a series of elbow-bumps trying to make each other shut up while they explain._

"_When we were fourth grade—ouch!"_

"_In that little school on the corner of Everett and Harwell—hey!"_

"—_Did you go there? Did you know Mr. MacCallum?"_

"_Who cares about him, idjit? _Anyway_, Homer here used to have a—ow! Aw, you've done it now…!"_

"_Ow! Hey, I just-! Panther, y'moron! His name's Patrick Spencer, alright? Look for Spencer! Get off me, or I'll give you such a—"_

"_Guys, straighten up and get in line!" hisses Jeremy suddenly. The two freshmen look up—Panther's got Homer in a headlock and Homer's cuffing him repeatedly in the stomach. _

"_Whuh?" says Homer coherently._

"_Coach is comin'—here, straighten up and I'll just—"_

"_Watt, is this everyone?"_

"_Yessir, just got the last one checked off." Jeremy's pretty tall, and when he moves smoothly ahead of the coach, he cuts off the man's view of Homer and Panther. They're readjusting their hair and headband, respectively, strenuously suppressing further laughter. _

"_That's Leonard Apollo," Panther whispers, eyes still on the coach as he stalks down the line. "He used to play for the Armadillos! They called him the most dedicated player—"_

"_Who's talking back there?"_

_Homer instantly raises his hand. He's not sure why, really, but there' s something nagging at the back of his mind, and something about the Leonard Apollo guy's voice that he just doesn't like. _

"_That was me, sir! Sorry, Mr. Apollo!"_

_Apollo stares at them. He's blonde, blue-eyed, and square-jawed, and he has the unmistakable look of an athlete who's let himself go a little. There's a cigar clamped between his teeth—pretty unusual these days, but NASA High still hasn't instated any official rules on smoking._

"…_Don't let it happen again," he says slowly, and carries on. _

_Once he's out of earshot, Homer leans to one side and says as softly as possible, "I don't like him…"_

"_He's my hero, man!" _

_Homer's about to argue when Apollo turns around and starts coming back their way again. Both of them straighten up, the unspoken dispute hanging between them._

_Later: _

_The tension's pretty much passed by the time Homer's trying out for quarterback. Jeremy from earlier hands the center a football, says, "good luck!", and starts running._

_Homer's much more confident now in his strength and skill, and even though Jeremy has to dive for his pass, it does go forty-five yards. Homer intends to make sure the coach knows it wasn't just luck. Frankly, his aim has never been that great, but Homer blames the crookedness of this one on distraction._

_Because the next trial…_

"_40-yard dash," says Apollo, and Homer wonders whether anyone else has noticed the unmistakably cold tone in his voice. He's looking straight at Panther, who of course ended up first in line. When it comes to speed, Panther will always be first._

"_Ready…go."_

_As Panther streaks down the field, something catches Homer's eye and he turns to see Jeremy approaching, the ball he caught nestled in the crook of his arm. There' s this weird look on his face as he watches Panther run—a mixture of awe, regret, and some grim emotion Homer can't place._

"_We could really use a running back like that," he says, but the words don't make sense with his face._

"_Well…you got one!" Homer prompts, waiting for light to dawn. "Panther's been waiting for this a long time!"_

_Jeremy smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "A long time, huh?"_

_Homer realizes that by now Apollo must've clicked the timer, and looks around eagerly, waiting for the exclamation of shock that always follows Panther's forty-yard dash…_

…_and waiting…_

…_What is the guy doing? _

_Apollo scribbles something on his clipboard—the one Watt was carrying earlier—and says as Panther jogs up, "Work on it."_

_For the first time in a _very _long time, Homer is utterly speechless._

While the rest of the team runs drills, Panther works his ass off collecting footballs off the field. Homer's never been a master of anger management, but he's having even more trouble than usual controlling himself in this situation. He tries to remind himself that he won't make junior varsity if he keeps missing the snap, that the running back he's practicing with needs experience just as much as everyone else, but it's just…

_STUPID_. Stupid and frustrating.

At five-thirty after practice, Homer and Panther stay behind on the field just as they do every day. They toss a ball back and forth for a while, just talking and joking around. Homer is still in his pads; Panther is wearing his tanktop and shorts, as usual. He hasn't even worn an Aliens uniform yet.

Homer forgets in his momentary anger to modulate the length of his pass, and comes back to himself when Panther leaps about three feet for it with a startled yell.

"Easy, there!" he yells, grinning as he lobs the ball underarm to Homer. Homer stares wordlessly down at it, sighs, and tosses it end over end.

"Let's go."

Homer doesn't like practicing the handoff without a center to snap the ball to him, but he doesn't know any of the guys playing that position too well yet. There's no way he's asking some random dude for help.

Left, right, left—they've been repeating these motions since grade school, to either direction, at varying distances, but Homer still screws up the first couple tries. After a while, though, muscle memory takes over and they go until six-thirty-four. For an hour, Homer watches his friend dodge imaginary defenders and they both cheer for his imaginary touchdowns.

"It'll happen one day," says Panther. "He'll let me play one day, for sure!"

"Coach Apollo? He's a—"

_-racist jerk with no eye for talent, _is what Homer doesn't say. Instead he trails off with a grimace and runs one hand through his hair, which falls right back in his face.

"You should shave your head, bro," Panther observes, backing up with his hands together for a catch. "You'll go blind in the middle of a game!"

"Shut up," says Homer good-naturedly, and chucks the football at Panther's stomach instead of his waiting hands. Panther throws it back and Homer snatches it out of the air, locking it between both arms and turning on his heel.

"_There's only sixty yards between Fitzgerald and the endzone!" _he yells, voice shaky with laughter and the jolts of his footsteps. "_He's seen worse! He can make it—_uofff!" Panther tackles him solidly around the waist, and the fall knocks all the air out of Homer's lungs.

"_Spencer's got him!" _crows Panther in his best commentator impression, rolling away over the grass. _"Look at that, folks! That's the running that got him MVP last year! Fitzgerald should stop trying to scramble, 'cuz he sucks at it!"_

And they laugh and laugh until Panther has to go make dinner for his grandma and Homer remembers his Geometry homework.

That's how it goes for quite a while, until one day Gonzalez (the big one) catches Homer's eye in the locker room and says, in his rumbling, deep-throated voice, "You need me to be center for you guys? I only work on Wednesdays and Saturdays."

"Huh?" says Homer; he was expecting questions about English homework or the plays they practiced today.

"You and Spencer," says Gonzalez.

"_Call me Panther!" _calls an echoing voice from the showers, and the rest of the team laughs. Homer grins too, but he can't help feeling oddly suspicious of the lineman's out-of-the-blue offer.

"Why'd you wanna do somethin' like that?" he asks, and wonders if he's just imagining the hush that falls over the locker room at this point, like everyone's waiting to hear the answer.

"He's always sayin' Coach'll come around," says the elder Gonzalez, and shrugs. "…We could use a guy who runs like that."

"Forty yards in four-point-two seconds!" pipes up Jeremy, poking his head around a row of lockers and squinting at them. He's polishing his foggy glasses with one industrious thumb. "Pretty amazing, even if the number _is_ a symbol of death in Japan!"

"You—what?" says Homer dumbly. He's been a bit standoffish around his teammates for a while, purely because bonding with Coach Apollo's all-white dream team seemed more than a little repulsive to him. Even after it became apparent most of them were decent guys, the damage was done…and now all of them are chattering at him for no reason.

Panther emerges from the showers in his shorts, pressing a towel to his braided hair and smiling bemusedly at the rest of the Aliens. "First y'all are talking about me behind my back and then Watt's goin' on about Japan…what gives?"

"Get used to it," mutters Kent, a senior tight end, kicking Jeremy in the shin. "He never _stops_."

"Very funny," says Jeremy, rolling his eyes and sliding his glasses back onto his face.

"Hardly talking about you behind your back," says Gonzalez, giving Panther a faintly injured look. "I knew you could hear me, man. Look, if you guys want to be good at playing together in case Spencer ends up in the game—"

"Panther!" Panther corrects, holding up one warning finger. He's pulling his shirt over his head at the time, though, so the image is more hilarious than intimidating.

"I can help you guys out," says Gonzalez. "Just 'cuz I feel like it, awright?"

"I know all Coach Apollo's favorite drills," Watt volunteers. "I have Japanese Club every Friday, and AP homework, but I'll stay behind whenever I can. There's this neat one where the quarterback throws a short one to me, then the tailback—"

"Save it for later," snaps someone by the door. "He's coming now! Act natural, guys…God knows what kinda trouble he'll make if he thinks Panther's doing more than picking up balls."

Jeremy grumbles something about unfair biases and "bad NFL experience", but he stops as soon as Coach Apollo comes striding through the door, smoke trailing behind him like a bad mood. Everyone knows what's coming by now, and they brace themselves for the "what you all did wrong" speech.

But even as Apollo pounds the lockers and jabs his cigar and glares at Panther (even though the poor guy isn't even involved in actual practice), the Aliens share a secret understanding through little glances and nods.

_Keep it secret. _

"Set!" yells Homer.

The evening sky above the field is purple. The air is cool. His legs are still sore and complaining from running extra laps today, but he still manages to shift them into position and twist his shoulders around to let Panther pluck the ball smoothly from his waiting hands. Sometimes Homer feels like they're the ultimate quarterback-running back duo; they flow like clockwork.

And the rest of the players are starting to feel more familiar, too—he and Jeremy have started mimicking the NASA countdown before Homer throws a long one, just for kicks.

"Hey, if you're the launchpad, doesn't that make the ball a rocket?"

"Huh?"

"Homer Fitzgerald and his rocket-like pass!" says Jeremy. "I like it!"

"Yeah!" says Panther, trotting up to them. "When you throw a long pass in a game, we can all put our hands in the air and go, '_Rocket Paaaassss!'_"

"That's _lame_!"

"You're right," says Jeremy, pushing his glasses up his nose with one gloved thumb. "It's not technically accurate. We _should _be calling it the _Shuttle Pass_."

"Homer Fitzgerald and his Shuttle Pass?" Just saying it out loud feels unspeakably dorky. "You kidding? We're not doin' that, guys."

"All in favor of the Shuttle Pass!" shouts Jeremy, and all the players who stayed late to help out raise their hands instantly, jerky grins plastered all over their faces. Homer scowls.

By the time the trip to Japan rolls around, they must have done that handoff thousands of times over. The rest of the team has gotten used to it too, and Homer feels almost guilty because it's affecting their running game in normal games. Everyone's gotten used to Panther's speed and efficiency, and even though Corey tries hard, he just can't get around defenders the way Panther does. Coach Apollo spends more time yelling abuse at the fullback and offensive line than he does giving them actual advice.

Meanwhile, Panther fills water bottles. When he's not doing that, he's sitting on the bench in plain clothes, one foot constantly tapping the ground with anxious speed. If Coach notices, he doesn't care.

The rest of the Aliens know better than to try and give Panther their money for the plane ride; either he or his grandma will pay for it, but he won't accept donations. But in the end, he does come along. Everyone claps him on the back and bumps fists with the last black kid on the team, but the question no one's asking hovers in the air like a shadow. No one has an answer, and so it goes unspoken.

_What's the point if you don't even get to play?_

It's pretty obvious from the moment that Eyeshield dude starts scoring touchdowns that there's only one solution, and it's the one Coach won't accept unless this is _it_—unless the time has finally come for Apollo to stop being a total ass.

Homer doesn't like to see Panther bowing, but the game's on and God only knows what it'll take to make him stop. So he lets it be until the whole situation has gotten down-right out of hand. And then Jeremy gives all of them a split-second lesson on the Japanese _dogeza_ and they all kneel next to the bench.

The play clock is running. Apollo stares at them like he can't comprehend what's happening in front of him, and on the field the Japanese team stares in watchful, questioning silence.

"Us too, Coach," says Jeremy. "We're begging here."

Homer can't help a rueful grin as he looks up to add his own two cents. "And it ain't just 'cuz we're friends of Panther's, Coach. Don't think we can get that ten-point lead without his speed."

His smile drops a little when he notices the muscles working in Mr. Apollo's jaw and the sound of his teeth grinding. That's not the face of an easily-persuaded man.

And then it's Panther's turn again. Homer somehow senses that this next appeal is going to be a doozy, but nothing could've prepared him for what his friend says.

"Just this once, Coach… If I can't stop that Eyeshield guy…I'll quit the team."

_Just like you always wanted._

"_What the hell are you saying?" _Homer growls, furious.

"'S fine!"

Homer's all ready to say, "_No, it ain't fine by a long shot!" _when Coach distracts him by whipping around on one heel and stalking away from the throng of still-bowed football players. Which is odd, considering he's always instantly turned down Panther's requests instantly before. Homer stares at the back of Apollo's suit jacket, mouth hanging slightly open.

Is it even possible…?

He puts Panther in an affectionate headlock and jabs a finger at the other boy's head. "Y'know, this guy here's been working three times harder than the rest of us just picking up after us!" ("_And staying after practice to do the handoff with me",_ is what he doesn't add.) "Coach, you gotta try him in a game!"

(Coach Apollo is standing oddly still.)

"Please give me a chance!" says Panther, and if his love for football doesn't reach the coach just through those five words, then Homer is going to punch the man in the face himself. There's another long moment, and Homer wonders whether Mr. Apollo is even listening to them.

But then: "_Fine_. Just this once, you hear?"

It sounds like he's fighting just to make the words come out of his mouth, but behind his back, Panther and Homer and Jeremy share looks of shock and elation. This is _big_. This is—

Panther looks like he might cry. Homer hopes he doesn't—he doesn't know how to deal with crying people. But in the end, Panther just says, breathlessly, "…Really? I can wear the uniform…?"

"Shut up and get on the field before I change my damn mind!" shouts Apollo. Well, it's to be expected. It's damn near miraculous that Panther has his permission at all, so they don't push the matter.

It's all a bit surreal—the team cheering when Panther returns the kickoff for a touchdown, the crowd roaring as he brushes past Eyeshield's blockers, the tables slowly turning in their favor. It's only after Homer's completed his first pass to Jeremy and Coach lets them go for a run that it all seems to click. And suddenly Homer's standing behind Big Gonzalez, waiting for the snap count and he realizes…

_I'm gonna give the ball to Panther. In a real game._

_HELL YES._

"SET! HUT!" yells Homer, and there's just the briefest moment before Panther goes racing off where they flash each other the broadest grins.

_Dude, I'm totally playing football!_

_Dude, you totally are!_

And then he's gone, eating up yards with great, springing steps, streaking towards the endzone. And Homer thinks, _Ain't no way, no way at all…_

There's no way Coach won't let him keep playing after this. It's like magic.

Suddenly, it seems like it was all worth it; like ever since the day they first watched a game together, it's all been leading up to this. All the abuse, the frustration, the extra practice…it's like Panther was just waiting for this moment.

Homer decides he must be dehydrated and delirious, because he's never really believed in destiny. There has to be something messing with his brain to make him feel this way. Still, there _is _something special about tonight, and when Coach Apollo starts cheering after Panther intercepts a Devil Bat pass, well, that just about decides it.

* * *

"_I'm gonna work out a lot before we get to high school, and then we can play for the same team and I'll give you the ball when you run."_

"_Handoff."_

"_Yeah, what you said."_

* * *

**So the dialogue from the manga isn't taken verbatim here. So sue me. Like any real American teenager would say, " Coach, please let me defeat him!" XD  
**

**There's this great set of panels after Apollo puts Panther in the game where Homer's about to hand the ball off to Panther and they just look so totally psyched about it. It makes me really happy, and that's how this fic happened. Our American guys need more love!**

**Hope it was worth reading!  
**


End file.
